


your eyes look like coming home

by liroa15



Series: Markmates [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liroa15/pseuds/liroa15
Summary: Connor McDavid isn't really looking for his Markmate. Which is sort of unfortunate because it turns out his Markmate sort of hates him.





	your eyes look like coming home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gusryder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gusryder/gifts).



> Gusryder, thank you so much for the lovely, lovely prompts. I've tried to keep as many details from that first season as possible, but I'm not going to lie, I also made a lot of stuff up.

Connor’s always been pretty private about his Soulmark. He can remember tracing his parents’ Marks when he was a little kid and asking them to tell him how they met again and again. His dad had seen his mom and _just known_ to hear him tell it. So Connor’s looking forward to the day he finally meets the person with a Soulmark that matches his. 

As he grows and gets better at hockey, his parents advise him against showing his Mark to anyone he doesn’t trust completely. So the only people who knows exactly what’s on his skin are his family, Dyls, and Marns. Dyls knows because Connor trusts him with everything, and Marns knows because Dyls trusts him with everything. Thankfully, his Mark is both small and low on his hip so it’s fairly easy for him to hide. 

At the Draft, the Edmonton Oilers call his name, and Connor’s actually looking forward to starting in Edmonton. Sure, it’s kind of a shitshow, but it’s Connor’s shitshow now. So he’s pretty excited to show up for development camp the next week.

He can’t wait to get on the ice and see what his new teammates have, but first they’ve all got to sit through the off-ice lectures, of which there are a lot. Connor pays attention to it all because it’s important. He can see some of the other guys texting or playing games on their phones, which irritates the captain in him. He doesn’t say anything, but he does mark who it is, including last year’s first round draft pick, Leon Draisaitl.

Connor has nothing but respect for Leon Draisaitl on the ice. He watched the German play in the Memorial Cup and was impressed as hell by his skill. Off the ice, however, Connor’s pretty sure they’re never going to get along. They’re just too different

~

Things don’t get better once they actually get on the ice the next day. Draisaitl steps out at the last possible second and starts goofing around with some of the guys he knows from previous camps and the Dub, not paying attention to the coaches at all. They don’t call him on it, but it puts Connor’s back up. He’s all for having fun, but he takes practice as seriously as he takes games, and he’s always been bothered by people who don’t.

Connor throws himself into the drills, trying to get as much out of it as he possibly can. Every time he catches sight of Draisaitl out of the corner of his eye, the German is laughing with someone or leaning on the boards. By the end of practice, Connor is silently fuming.

He Skypes Stromer after he gets back to the hotel and spends half an hour ranting about how irresponsible Draisaitl is and how he hopes the German gets sent down to the AHL in the fall.

“Calm down, Davo,” Stromer finally interrupts. “Not everyone’s as intense as you are, especially since it’s not his first camp. Cut him some slack.”

Connor doesn’t really think that he’s being too hard on Draisaitl, but he’ll admit that Stromer is better at seeing other people’s points of view. Connor’s been told he can pretty single minded when he’s pursuing his goals. 

“Fine,” Connor grumbles. “I’ll give him another chance.”

~

Things between him and Draisaitl don’t get better. If anything, they get worse. They’re both centres, and they’re both intent on being the 1C for the team. That in of itself wouldn’t usually be enough to get Connor’s back up; he’s been competing against other players for ice time since he first learned to play.

But there’s something about Draisaitl’s attitude that rubs Connor the wrong way, so to speak. Leon Draisaitl is a hell of a player, and Connor’s excited to have him centering the second line, but he and Connor are never going to get along. Draisaitl is too laidback, and he never seems to take anything seriously. Connor’s never minded jokes or pranks before, but right now doesn’t seem the right time for shit like that.

“We’re all going out, Davo,” Nursey says at the end of the second last day of camp. “To celebrate and let off a little steam. You coming?”

Connor feels a little sorry for Darnell, who seems to have appointed himself peacemaker between his two future teammates. And as much as he’d like to go back to the hotel and start preparing for tomorrow, he also knows that team bonding is important.

“One drink,” he tells Darnell.

Nursey grins at him. “One drink, that’s all. Promise, man,” he says. “We’re meeting in the lobby at 8.”

“I’ll be there,” Connor promises. He’s already regretting it.

~

Connor shows up in the hotel lobby a few minutes before 8. Nursey is waiting there in a pair of tight jeans and a button down with the top three buttons undone. It makes Connor’s jeans and t-shirt look sloppy and makes him feel self-conscious.

And that’s before Draisaitl even shows up. He’s got on a pair of jeans so tight that Connor knows exactly which way he dresses and a button down that looks tailored to get the German laid. He looks good and he knows it.

“We cabbing it?” Nursey asks while Connor and Draisaitl eye each other with distaste.

“Yeah,” Leon agrees, his accent soft but present, so it sounds more like _ja_.

They end up at some loud country bar with servers in plaid and overpriced, watered-down drinks. Connor gets a beer, thankful that he can actually, legally drink since it’s probably going to be a long night. 

At some point, the bar actually plays the music for a line dance, which Draisaitl seems to know how to do. Nursey’s drunk enough that he just claps along, but Connor’s not there yet. Also, he’s pretty sure he’s been recognized half a dozen times, which means Twitter pictures, which means he’ll be hearing from his agent.

“I’m gonna head out,” Connor tells Nursey as soon as the song comes to an end. Draisaitl is heading towards them.

“Cutting out already?” the German asks, his tone full of derision. Connor rolls his eyes. 

“Some of us actually take our performance seriously,” Connor snipes back. 

Draisaitl opens his mouth like he’s about to respond, but Nursey breaks it up. “Come on, guys,” he whines. “I don’t want to have to deal with your shit for one night.”

Connor holds up his hands, as if he’s surrendering. “I’m out,” he repeats. “I’ll see you at the rookie game tomorrow night.”

“Later, man,” Nursey shouts and then turns his attention back to whatever Draisaitl is saying to him. Connor tries not to feel bitter about Nursey clearly choosing Draisaitl over him.

It doesn’t really work.

~

Connor kills it in the Billy Moores Cup, and the fans seem to really appreciate it. Of course, the fans seem to really appreciate everything he does. They also seem to appreciate everything Nursey does and Draisaitl does and Caleb does. 

It leaves a bad taste in Connor’s mouth even as he says all the right things to the press.

“Sounds like you’re jealous, bud,” Dyls tells him when he gets back from Arizona’s camp. 

“I’m not!” Connor denies. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous of,” he adds when Dylan gives him a skeptical look.

“Okay, bud,” Dylan agrees in that way he has that makes it perfectly clear that Dylan’s only humouring Connor. 

“I’m not,” Connor grumbles. Dylan wisely doesn’t say anything more about it.

He throws all his energy and focus into getting bigger and faster for his first NHL season since the guys he’s going to be playing are also going to be bigger and faster. He tries not to think about Draisaitl at all, but if the occasional image of his face or his smirk flash across his mind—mostly when he’s jerking off—Connor would never admit it. He tells Laws and Crouser and TK and Marns and Dyls how much he hates the German and pretends not to see Marns mouth _sexual tension_ at the rest of them. 

Sometimes, late at night, he lets his fingers trace his Mark and wonders what his Markmate is like. He or she has to like hockey, right? They’re probably at university, studying to be a doctor or a lawyer or something equally smart. Maybe they’re not even Canadian.

Connor doesn’t let himself think about it too much though. He’s got other shit to focus on first, after all. Making the Oilers. Winning the Calder. Winning the Cup. Making captain. Connor’s got a lot of goals to reach before he starts seriously looking for his Markmate.

~

When Connor gets back to Edmonton for rookie camp, Draisaitl is just as obnoxious as he was in development camp. Connor does his best to stay out of the German’s way. Thankfully, Draisaitl seems to have decided the same thing, and it works out pretty well. Nursey rolls his eyes once every fifteen minutes or so and lets out a huge sigh every hour, but that’s easy enough to ignore. It’s all easy enough to ignore in favour of playing the best hockey possible.

Connor makes the team out of main camp, but Draisaitl is one of the last ones cut and sent down to Bakersfield. 

He’s trying not to look too smug about it, and probably failing if the look Nursey is shooting him is any indication, at least until Draisaitl comes back into the dressing room, towel hanging almost indecently low. 

Which is why Connor notices it. Resting on Draisaitl’s left hipbone is his Mark. It’s small and the pattern is achingly familiar. It’s a stylized hockey puck streaking towards something, or at least that’s what Connor’s always seen. His finger absently brushes across his own matching Mark.

For the first time in what feels like his entire life, Connor’s not sure exactly what he’s supposed to do. Draisaitl doesn’t know about his Mark; Connor doesn’t have to tell him.

That idea is quickly dismissed, however. Connor has zero clue how Fate could possibly pair them up, but he can’t just pretend he never saw it. 

He ends up having to get Draisaitl’s phone number from Nursey. Nursey sends him a bunch of emojis along with it, ending in a thumbs up. 

Connor agonizes over what to send, but eventually just sends a simple _this is connor. mcdavid. we need 2 talk_.

_fuck off_ Draisaitl sends back only a couple of minutes later.

Connor sends a photo of his own Mark back because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

_not fucking funny_ Draisaitl replies, and Connor can practically feel his anger even through text message.

_not fucking joking_ Connor returns, and then sends Draisaitl a picture of him flipping off the camera. 

His phone rings a second later.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” is the first thing Draisaitl says.

“Not exactly my idea, man,” Connor returns. “I didn’t have to say anything, you know,” he adds after a second. He doesn’t add that he actually did contemplate just that since it makes him look like a petty child.

Draisaitl blows out a long breath, almost like he’s counting back from ten or whatever else they teach children to do to control their tempers on the ice. “Yes, thank you,” he says without any emotion. “This is a lot. Perhaps I can call you tomorrow when I have more time to think about it?”

Connor doesn’t call him on the slight slip in his English. “We can just text if you’d rather,” he offers. Texting seems safer somehow.

“Yeah,” Draisaitl agrees. “That might be a good start.”

So they text mostly. Drai calls him after he gets his first point and tells him not to worry about the press. Connor tells him that he’ll be back up with them in no time at all, and that he’s too good to be stuck in the A. He even means it.

Drai gets called back up after a half dozen games. The team sends someone to get him from the airport, so the first time that Connor sees him is at practice. They nod to one another, but neither of them says anything. At least not until after practice.

“Hey,” Drai says, hovering awkwardly by Connor’s locker. “Do you think I could see it maybe?”

And it takes Connor a moment to figure out exactly what Drai’s asking. It seems almost too personal on some level, but it’s also a completely normal request between Markmates. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll send you Hallsy’s address.”

Drai smiles then, and Connor feels something—he’s not quite sure how to describe it—turn over in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure why, really. Drai’s a reasonably attractive dude, but Connor’s never felt like this around him before. Hate sex fantasies don’t count. At all.

Connor’s pretty sure it’s just because matching Marks is a pretty big deal. Lots of people have ceremonies and receptions and the whole she-bang. Connor’s not really ready for any of that, and he doesn’t think Drai is either, but it’s not something they’ve talk about.

There’s lots of things they haven’t talk about.

At least Connor’s somewhat used to the sick feeling of dread churning in his stomach now.

~

Hallsy says that he’ll go and grab ice cream with Ebs when Connor asks if he can have the house for a coupe of hours. The look on his face makes it pretty clear Hallsy thinks he has a hook-up, but Connor’s willing to allow him to think that as long as he fucking goes.

Drai shows up almost as soon as Hallsy’s monster truck pulls out, and it’s only while he’s letting Drai in that he realizes that Hallsy left a box of condoms out on the coffee table. 

Connor wants to die.

The first thing Drai sees is the condoms, of course. Connor watches his eyebrow go up just a fraction.

“Hallsy thinks he’s being helpful,” Connor says. His face is red as a tomato.

“Hallsy thinks a lot of things,” Drai says. He pauses for a second. “I never really thought about how this would go,” he admits. “Finding my Markmate was always low on my priority list.”

“Me too,” Connor admits with something akin to relief. “I know people love their Mark reveal parties and shit, but that’s not something I’ve ever wanted.”

Drai actually shudders. “Yeah, no,” he says. “I’ll never want one of those tacky fucking things.”

“Cake though,” Connor suggests with a grin.

“Pretty sure we’ve got enough money between the two of us that we can buy our own cake.”

“Deal,” Connor agrees. “But it has to be chocolate.”

“We Germans are somewhat famous for our chocolate cake,” Drai agrees. Connor doesn’t know why, but he’s kind of looking forward to it. 

~

His relationship with Drai doesn’t change overnight. The team is doing okay—they’re winning almost as much as they’re losing—and Connor’s having a lot of success personally. After a couple of games, he and Drai seem to find a rhythm, and it helps them both put up enough points that the press starts taking note.

Connor stops actively avoiding Drai, so when Nursey invited him to join them after a particularly satisfying win against Vancouver, Connor says sure. They go out to the same country bar place they went to in the summer. Drai goes up to the bar immediately and comes back with a tray of shots. He hands a couple of them to Connor with a grin. 

Connor does them both one after another while Drai laughs. “Woah, Davo,” he says. “What’s the rush, man?”

Connor doesn’t say anything in response but grabs another shot from Drai. The bar has a special VIP section for them, so they’re not swarmed by fans, which Connor appreciates. The last thing he needs is pictures of him as a sloppy drunk online tomorrow.

“All right, champ,” Drai says when Connor’s had a couple more shots. He slides in next to Connor. “What brought this on?”

Connor shrugs and lets his head fall against Drai’s shoulder. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “It’s just a lot, you know? So much. I want it to be less much now.”

“No, not really,” Drai says dryly. “I’m not even sure you’re still speaking English.”

“Of course I am,” Connor replies indignantly. “My French is complete shit. I don’t even try any more.”

Drai laughs at that, bright and loud. Connor doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that it elicits. “Not what I meant, Davo,” he says. And then, “Can I get a water for McJesus?”

Connor punches him in the ribs for that crack.

~

Connor’s not sure exactly how it happens, but after that night (and the ensuing hangover), he and Leon end up hanging out all the time. They play CHEL with Hallsy, who kicks both of their asses, and they grab dinner with Nursey, who looks at them like he knows something they don’t. They do shit with the team, and put up with the same rookie hazing, even though Leon protests that he’s not really a rookie at all.

They do stuff together too, of course. Nothing as fucking cliché as the ice cream dates that Hallsy and Ebs still go on however many years later, and which will never not be funny, but they go and see the late show of whatever movie’s just come out to avoid signing as many autographs as they can. Connor doesn’t tell the trainers that Leon always gets extra butter on his popcorn, and Leon doesn’t rat him out about his extra large Cokes. 

And if every once in a while, Leon reaches over their shared armrest and twines their fingers together, Connor doesn’t read too much into it. Some Markmates need physical contact to strengthen the bond between them. They’ve never talked about it, but it’s not like Connor minds holding Leon’s hand. If anything, he probably likes it too much.

Which is why he tries not to think about it. 

“That is not what Markmates do, is all I’m saying,” Dylan says when they’re Skyping after Connor’s latest late-night movie adventure.

“How would you know?” Connor demands. He’s never seen Dylan’s Mark, which isn’t all that unusual. Still, Connor knows that Dyls hasn’t found his Markmate yet, so it’s not like he knows what it feels like. “Pretty sure that’s exactly the plot of like half the rom-coms Hollywood releases every year.”

“Yeah, but we all know Hollywood is full of shit, Davo,” Dylan replies. 

Connor’s got no real reply for that, but there’s no other excuse for why Leon’s touching him now. Connor’s pretty sure they’re friends now, but they’ve never actually talked about it. “Maybe Hollywood got that one thing right?” he finally mumbles.

“ _Sure_ , Davo,” Dylan returns, sarcasm sharp enough to cut. “I’m sure that’s like the only thing they’ve ever gotten right in their decades-long obsession with Markmates.”

Connor does the only thing he can think of in the situation: he changes the subject. Dyls will talk for hours about the Otters powerplay given half the chance, so Connor makes a comment about their powerplay percentage and then just lets Dylan go.

It doesn’t really help Connor with his own issues, but at least he doesn’t have to talk about his complicated relationship with Leon anymore.

~

They win against Calgary, and it’s a big thing. Connor gets rivalries—he’s a hockey player after all—but this one seems special for some reason. Leon feels the same way because he finds Connor after press and declares that they’re going out. 

“C’mon Cooon,” he calls, already a little high on the victory. Leon’s the only one who calls him that; everyone else sticks to Davo. 

They do not go to the country bar this time. Connor’s not quite sure who chose the place, but it’s more of a traditional nightclub, loud dance music, flashing lights, overpriced drinks.

Leon grabs them a couple of beers from the bar, and then drags Connor directly onto the dancefloor before he has a chance to take more than a couple of drinks from the bottle. 

“Leon!” Connor shouts, but Leon doesn’t let him go, pulling him closer than Connor really has to be, even on a crowded dancefloor.

“What?” Leon purrs into his ear, and Connor can’t control the shiver that slides down his spine. 

“Nothing,” Connor mumbles because he’s starting to think Dyls might be right and this might not be a Mark thing. Or maybe it is a Mark thing, and all Leon wants is a physical connection. Maybe he’s making something out of nothing.

Leon grins then, a look that Connor can only classify as hungry. Their faces are close enough that Connor could lean forward and kiss him if he was brave enough. He’s not, and Leon seems to read that in his eyes because he pulls back.

“Soon,” he says, and Connor’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to have heard it, but he does.

He doesn’t know why it brings tears to his eyes, stinging in their intensity.

(That’s a lie; he does. He just doesn’t want to think about it.)

~

Soon doesn’t come because the Philadelphia Flyers roll into town, and he goes into the boards and breaks his fucking collarbone. They give him so many drugs that for a little while everything is just a blur. They tell him he needs surgery, which he’d known from the moment he’d hit the fucking boards.

They already have it booked for the next day by the time the boys get of the ice, fresh off a win that doesn’t feel much like a win. The other guys file through the room, wishing him well and telling him they’re going to win for him and half a dozen other platitudes that Connor knows are just that but appreciates anyways. Leon hangs back, hovering in the doorway of the trainer’s room they won’t let him leave. Connor doesn’t understand, and it hurts because all he wants is for Leon to run a hand through his hair and tell him that it’s all going to be fine. 

“Leon,” Connor calls. “Leon, it hurts.” Well, it doesn’t right now. Nothing hurts right now, but Connor knows that it did, and it will again when the drugs start wearing off. “Leon, I don’t like this.”

“Let the doctors do their work, okay Davo?” He says, voice stilted and accent a little sharper than normal.

“Yeah, sure,” Connor agrees. He figures he can blame his tears on the drugs. On the pain, even though he’s not feeling very much of anything right now.

On the gaping hole in his chest where Leon took up residence without Connor even noticing that he was falling in love with someone who apparently doesn’t even want to be in the same room with him.

~

Connor heads home after surgery to lick his wounds both literally and metaphorically. He ends up having to tell his mom the whole story, to which she just sighs and say “Oh, Connor,” in her most exasperated tone. Thankfully, he’s spared more mom advice than that.

Dyls doesn’t take it so well. “And he just left?” he asks for like the third time.

“That’s what I said,” Connor grumbles. He’s so over done with recounting this for Dyls.

“Fuck that guy,” Dyls returns, tone unexpectedly vicious.

Which, Connor wishes that his emotions were as uncomplicated as Dyls’s seem to be when it comes to Leon, but he misses him. They text a little, but it’s awkward and stilted and so much like earlier this year when Connor was trying to convince himself that he didn’t like Leon that he wants to cry.

He blames that on the pain in his shoulder though. 

“You should come and visit me,” Dylan says. “It’ll be good for you to be around your boys, and I know my billets wouldn’t mind. They fucking love you, man.”

Which is how Connor ends up in Erie with strict instructions from his mother not to push himself and to take his painkillers when he’s hurting. Dyls picks him up at the airport—it’s not like he can drive himself with one fucking arm—and it’s just so, so fucking good to see him. 

“Davo, Davo, Davo,” Dyls chants in a frankly embarrassingly pitch, and Connor has to pull back to laugh a little at it.

“Missed you, Dyls,” he mumbles and then lets Dylan steer him towards his car and back to his billets’. 

He goes to an Otters practice the next day and watches from the stand, one of Dyls’s Otters caps pulled low on his head. Coach Knoblauch asks him what he sees a couple of times, and Connor is happy to give his opinion. Anything to stop thinking about what a fucking mess his life has turned in to.

When practice ends, Nursey’s sent him a text asking if they can Skype tonight, which is fucking weird. Still, Connor tries to be a good teammate and he knows the Oilers haven’t been winning many games without him. Maybe Nursey just needs to let off some steam. 

He says yes and then has to figure out where the guys are and the time difference between there—which turns out to be Anaheim—and Erie. 

Dyls helps him set it up so that he doesn’t put any strain on his shoulder and collarbone and then curls up around his back in silent support.

Which is probably pretty good because Nursey’s not alone. Leon’s sitting on the bed with him.

“How you doing, Davo?” Nursey says, his voice faux-cheerful. Connor doesn’t know how to respond to that, but thankfully Nursey doesn’t seem to expect too much from him. “Look, you two really need to fucking talk because Drai’s been a fucking terror without you, and we can’t afford the fucking penalties.”

Behind him, Dyls snorts at that. Leon hasn’t said a single thing, but Connor watches his eyes narrow and zone in on the lump that is Dylan. 

“I’ll be back soon,” is all Connor says because he starts his rehab in a couple of weeks back in Edmonton. 

“Look, man, things aren’t great right now,” is all Nursey says, shooting a pointed look at Leon.

“Yeah, well, things aren’t great for me right now either,” Connor replies, shifting his shoulder just enough to bring attention to his sling. “I know you guys have been struggling a little bit, especially on the powerplay, but there’s not much I _can_ do from here.”

Leon says something to Nursey, but it’s too low for the shitty mic on Nursey’s computer to pick up. 

“Fine, be idiots. See if I care,” Nursey grumbles and proceeds to talk about their playoff chances—next to none—for fifteen minutes. Dylan offers some occasional commentary from behind Connor, but mostly he just listens Connor talk with his new team. 

“See you when you get back, Davo,” Nursey says. Leon says something similar.

“Well, he was jealous as hell,” Dyls says from behind his back when the Skype call disconnects. “I’d say that he’s crazy in love with you.”

“You’re wrong,” Connor disagrees. “Maybe he wants to fuck me, but he doesn’t love me.”

Dylan shrugs. “Just telling it like I see it, Davo,” he says. “And that guy is crazy jealous because he’s in love with you.”

Connor rolls his eyes and lets Dyls force another painkiller down his throat.

~

When he gets back to Edmonton, the city is in the middle of a cold snap. Nursey and Leon show up at the airport to come and get him. 

“You should zip your jacket up before we get outside,” Nursey suggests. “It’s cold as balls.”

“Thanks for the tip, Nursey,” Connor snaps. “I’ll be sure to do that as soon as I’ve got two fucking hands that work.” 

Leon stops and zips up his coat, fingers smoothing down the zipper gently. “There,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Connor mumbles. He can feel his cheeks heating.

“Look, I’m gonna drop you both off at Drai’s place so you can work your shit out before it starts affecting the team because we need you both at your best,” Nursey declares as soon as they’re all belted into his truck.

Connor doesn’t really think he and Leon have anything to discuss, but he’s not going to try and convince Nursey of that. The drive to Leon’s condo is quiet. Leon and Nursey offer up some team gossip, but it’s mostly about pranks and other innocuous shit. 

Leon’s condo is exactly the same as Connor remembers it. Leon’s polite enough to offer him a beer, which he has to turn down because of the painkillers he took to deal with the flight. Leon grabs him a purple Gatorade without saying anything else.

They drink their respective drinks in silence for a few moments before Leon sets his half-empty bottle down on the table with a sharp clank. “Look,” he finally says, “I get that you don’t get to choose your Markmate, Con, and that you don’t even really like me.”

“I do like you!” Connor interrupts indignantly. “I didn’t to start with, but that’s because I didn’t know you. But I get it, and it’s not like I’m going to push you for anything you don’t want to give.”

Leon stares at him for a moment. “So you’re not dating Strome?”

Connor can feel himself gaping at Leon, but he can’t help it. The idea of him and Dyls together is ridiculous, even if he hadn’t already found his Markmate. “Dyls is like a brother to me,” he protests, which is cliché as hell but also true. “But you couldn’t even come in the room when I got hurt. You didn’t want to deal with me being so needy, or whatever. Which is fine.”

Leon picks up his beer bottle and starts shredding the label. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to come in,” he says. “But I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave, and it’s not like we’re Declared. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Connor sighs. “I mean, we never talked about it, except about not wanting a Reveal party. And sometimes it felt like we were dating, but nothing ever happened.”

It’s Leon’s turn to sigh. “Yeah, well, I’m a coward. It’s not easy to kiss McJesus, even if he is your Markmate.”

Connor grins at him and takes the beer bottle from Leon’s hands. Their faces are so close together that Connor can feel Leon’s breath on his cheek. Close enough to kiss.

Anticipation and nerves twist Connor’s stomach into knots, but he leans in and presses his lips to Leon’s for a couple of seconds anyway. When he pulls back, Leon’s fingers creep up to press against his lips, even though the kiss was pretty chaste by any definition.

“See?” Connor asks, settling back into his spot. “Easy.”

Leon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Connor can feel the anticipation turning to dread. He’s trying to think of some way to apologize when Leon grabs him and pulls him back for another kiss. 

This one is decidedly less chaste. Connor feels behind the play, but he’s content to follow Leon’s lead this time.

“Jesus fuck,” he swears when they finally pull apart. Connor’s panting slightly, but so is Leon.

“Easy,” Leon purrs.

They don’t fuck that night; Connor’s shoulder still isn’t up for anything that strenuous, but they both climb into Leon’s bed. Connor’s tired as hell, and the drugs don’t help, but the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep is Leon’s fingers tracing low over Connor’s Mark. 

It’s nice. Soothing.

Better than he ever expected it would be.

~

Leon takes them both to the rink early the next morning so that Connor can talk to the physios about rehab. They’re happy with his progress, but they tell him that he can’t start skating yet and that he has to be patient.

“Yeah, be patient, babe,” Leon drawls. 

The look Connor gives Leon is not kind.

The look the physio gives them is the same look Connor imagines a deer might give a car right before it gets hit. “HR is down the hall if you need to report any change in relationship,” the woman finally says, and that startles a laugh out of Connor.

“No, we’re good,” he says ruefully. “Or, well, as good as things can be when I still can’t skate.”

“Three weeks,” she says with a smile before shooting Leon a mischievous look. “Maybe Drai can help distract you in the meantime.”

The look Leon gives Connor at that is full of promise and definitely not something Connor ever needed his physio to see.

As they’re heading to the locker room, Leon sighs. “We’re gonna have to tell the guys,” he says. 

Connor’s a little surprised to find he kind of likes the idea, despite all the possible problems it could cause. “Yeah,” he agrees. 

Most of the guys are already in the locker room when they get there. They greet him enthusiastically, happy to have him back in town even if he’s not skating yet.

Connor finds himself reaching back for Leon’s hand without giving it any thought. Leon twines their fingers together easily, almost like they’re sitting together in a dark theatre. The room goes unnaturally quiet, which is when Connor realizes that he’s unintentionally outed them to the rest of the guys.

Leon nods at him, his chin jutting out in the same way it does when he’s determined to win at CHEL or when he’s facing off against a guy with a better faceoff percentage and they’re down by 1 in the third. So, fuck it. Leon seems okay with it, and they were going to have to tell the guys sooner or later anyway.

“Surprise?” Connor deadpans.

Hallsy and a couple of others are vocally supportive, tell them that of course it’s okay. Connor catches Ebs handing Hallsy a few bills and wants to be offended that they fucking bet on it, but he finds he can’t summon the ire.

There are few guys who are quiet, noticeably so. Connor marks them as guys to watch, and he can tell Leon is doing the exact same thing.

“I fucking knew it,” Nursey declares, throwing his arms around both of them. He’s in his skates and he’s got his shoulder pads on, but he hasn’t pulled his jersey on yet, so Connor ends up with Velcro digging into his neck and the stench of used hockey equipment in his nose. Nursey’s got a grip like a vise though, and he can’t squirm away. 

Leon doesn’t have a fucked-up collarbone, so he elbows Nursey in the kidney until he lets go and then heads across the room to get changed.

“Good for you, bro,” Nursey says. “I’m glad you two got it together. You’re good for each other.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Connor agrees, settling back into his stall.

It’s right, easy in the way that hockey always is.

He looks across the room and sees Leon watching him with a tiny smile Connor knows instinctively is just for him.

It’s like coming home.


End file.
